Distilled
by laminatebox
Summary: John and Sherlock after the Great Game. Mycroft catches wind and becomes protective of his younger brother. Johnlock. Eventual Angst/Mature Content/Hurt/Comfort Warning: Torture in later chapters :3
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I have no idea what I'm doing or how I'm going to end this.

If you're hopelessly obsessed with the BBC's Sherlock as I am then I hope you enjoy this. I hope it's not the worst one you've ever read xD Eventual Angst/Mature Content/Hurt/Comfort

Reviews are welcome but please be gentle D:

Disclaimer: If I owned BBC I would have no need for fanfiction.

Chapter 1.

And breathe...

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. Lying on the bed disoriented, he was barely aware that he was safely inside his flat at 221B Baker street instead of that dreaded pool.

Steeling himself with another deep breath, Sherlock remarked to the incident that occurred only few days ago. The shock that he had felt when he first saw John, pale faced, push through the pool-side door, the panic as he saw the explosive vest hidden under his coat, the curiosity towards his new-found rival, Moriarty...

The name sent chills down his spine, giving him uncontrollable nightmares since the bloody thing. Sherlock rubbed his temples in frustration but, how did one fully control one's subconscious? He never had much patience for dreams, let alone nightmares. Sighing, he swung his legs over and leapt from his bed, reeling in as much energy as possible to start another sleepless day. Not that he was a stranger to this behavior, God no, he just hadn't been expecting this extreme physical exhaustion as well. Almost as if his body had never recovered and now betrayed him at every turn.

He briefly checked his phone before standing up, 'No new messages' lit up the screen in a rather mocking way. Nothing from Mycroft, nothing from Lestrade, but, more importantly, nothing from Moriarty.

Well, there went his mood. He thumped rather angrily into the kitchen to brew some tea. He grumbled to himself along the way, meaningless jabber about the temperature of the flat, though he was only wearing his silk robe. He placed the kettle on the stove and began the short process of boiling the water.

He scratched an itch and stared at the kitchen table. To an outsider, it looked like a slob's desk that doubled as a dinner table, but Sherlock knew it was cluttered with his ongoing experiments and perhaps a few dishes from when John managed to feed him. John, the best friend he could ever hope for was forever pushing him to behave semi-normally and constantly reminding him of the things he would normally have wrote off as unnecessary. A personal alarm, making sure Sherlock ate and had enough sleep; John had been the most effective motherly role in his awkward existence, as silly as it seemed to say.

Speaking of, a creak of a door let Sherlock know that his flatmate was up as well. He turned his attention back to the pot of tea that was beginning to whistle on the stove top as John, bleary-eyed, strolled into the kitchen with a slurred, "G'mornin'." Sherlock pulled the kettle off the stove, readied two mugs, all the while noting the sleep deprived face of John Watson.

Sherlock didn't reply with words, he merely place the mug of hot tea in front of John. John reached for it blowing on the scalding drink before asking, "Any milk?"

Sherlock snickered, "If you like it rotten, then yes, I suppose we do." John rolled his eyes, "No, thanks." The two shared more silence just sipping away tea in the early morning, John seated at the kitchen table and Sherlock leaning against the counter. Sherlock briefly glanced over his cup to John, eying the bags under his eyes and the unnecessarily strong grip that handled such a fragile mug.

"Are you working later today?"

"Yeah, I've got to pop in about seven, but I should be back around four. Sarah said we'd be swamped today."

Sherlock muttered a noncommittal noise in agreement and felt a sigh go through him as he wondered what he could do that day to bring the buzzing of his mind to a calmer plane. Perhaps Lestrade would contact him or maybe a client with an interesting case would ring. It was anyone's guess, but Sherlock was glad to have spent a few calm moments in the safety of his flat enjoying the company of his only friend.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

Sherlock absentmindedly stared at someone who insisted on shaking him. He had been thinking, in his usual spot on the couch, of an old memory, his first semester at college. There had been so many new things to study and learn about that he would stay up as long as possible, for days, until his body had insisted on crashing. And after a few precious hours of sleep, he'd return to his studies, as vigilant as before, determined to know the in's and out's of everything that concerned that particular subject. He was literally shaken out of his memories though, curiously, the red hair and jaw line reminded him of Mycroft. No wait, that is Mycroft...

The realization snapped his brain into fast forward. It was indeed Mycroft and he was shouting, face flushed with anger. He momentarily enjoyed the anguish of his brother, reveling in how rare his unusually calm and collected brother lost his temper. In fact, he hadn't seen him this angry since he had found out about the drugs, but that had been ages ago. Clean now, Sherlock wondered what the bloody hell was the problem.

"Mycroft, if you're intending to give me cerebral damage, you are very much succeeding." His snide remark was answered with a slap across his face.

"DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW WORRIED I WAS? No, the 'Great' Sherlock Holmes can take care of himself! How long did you think it would take for me to find out about the pool incident? I sent you to recover that damn memory stick! What did you think I would do when I didn't receive them? Hum quietly to myself?" Mycroft drew back, heaved a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. "That was incredibly idiotic for some one as 'intelligent' as you."

Unsure what to answer, Sherlock shifted from his awkward position on the couch to a more comfortable one. Mycroft drew to his full height and tugged at the edges of his suit. "Which is why I am placing you under, hmm... for-lack-of-a-better-word, house arrest, until we can find out more about this... Jim Moriarty."

"Ha. You cannot be serious." But Sherlock's laughter died when he saw the shift in Mycroft's gaze as well as his inability to make eye contact.

"It seemed the only logical conclusion, seeing as your stubborn self was sure to evade any kind of new surveillance that I haven't already put to use."

Mycroft stood still waiting for the explosion. And it came. A livid Sherlock had trouble gasping for air in his venomous fit of insults. "I am NOT five years old and I do not need any form of a babysitter. Mrs. Hudson and John do that often enough already. What is the point of this Mycroft? Do you honestly think that leaving me trapped in this flat will keep me safe from the boogeymen that are out in London? This is TOO idiotic and I will simply not comply."

Mycroft began a light pace around the living room studying the wallpaper. "I knew you would say something along those lines, eloquent choice of words I may add, but your opinion has nothing to do with my decision." He stopped short and turned to face Sherlock. "This is for your own good and if I do not have your cooperation, I will proceed over your head."

Sherlock actually had a tinge of shock show on his face before he slipped back into his aggravated demeanor. "You. Wouldn't. Dare."

"Oh, but I would. You see, I've kept Mummy in the dark about all the stunts you've pulled since you moved out on your own, as per our agreement. But don't think I won't go back on my word to keep you safe. And it's merely a precaution until I can dig up more information about our little bomber." Mycroft paused. "Despite what you may be thinking, I don't particularly enjoy this." He turned and motioned to the two men in suits that had been hovering just inside the doorway.

Flustered, Sherlock grasped at straws in an attempt to wriggle his way out of this predicament. "Is this even legal?" He snapped his sharp light green eyes at his brother.

"Relax. Johnson will be the one guarding your flat from the black car in the back alleyway," He pointed at the tall blond with a muscular build. Sherlock noted that the man probably smoked and had a military haircut though it did not seem as though he had seen a battlefield. "And this is Smith. He will be monitoring from the front. If you need to leave for any reason, because I know that asking you to stay in one place is asking too much, you must request their assistance. I cannot stress this enough, if you choose not to follow my orders then I will have to follow through with much more desperate actions. Though given your flair for drama, I wouldn't be surprised at all if it became necessary."

"All of you, GET OUT OF MY FLAT." Sherlock didn't care if the whole ruddy neighborhood could hear him, so long as his menace of a brother was gone from his sight. John... John would know what to do about this. Perhaps Sherlock couldn't convince his brother because of their past differences and pettiness that always seemed to worm into conversations. But John, cool-headed John, would help him ease Mycroft's worries. After all, he had been present at the pool as well and surely he would agree about this excessive plan of Mycroft's.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Not gonna lie, I totally listened to Mother Knows Best from Tangled while writing this xD

Feel free to review!

Disclaimer: Yer a wizard 'Arry

Chapter 3:

John dashed up the stairs in a rush. The text message he had received from Sherlock only moments before had simply read, "Trouble. Come at once. -SH." Panicking, he'd rushed through his last patient and told Sarah there was something urgent he needed to leave for. She shrugged, assuming it was something to do with Sherlock once again, and let him off the hook. They'd already seen more patients than she had originally thought they would and she could finish up the last three that were in the waiting room. Hurriedly thanking her, John ran for the door, out in to the bustling streets of London. He'd rushed to their flat thinking the worst, as he so often did, only to find a stunned looking Sherlock staring out the window.

"What is it? What is the matter?" John glanced at his friend's face for hints of emotion.

"Oh it's terrible, John!" He sighed heavily "Mycroft is trying to bully me!" John heaved a breath that he wasn't aware he was holding and walked through the door to stand behind his favorite armchair.

"You know," he said calmly, "One of these days there's going to be real danger and it'll be the day I decide not to show." He placed his hands on the head of the chair. Sherlock regarded his flatmate, knowing full well that John was bluffing.

"Oh don't be so dramatic. It's not like you were doing anything important anyway." Sherlock let his hands fly up in the air. "I do actually require your help. Mycroft apparently thinks that I need watching over and I believe you can talk some sense into him."

John thoughtfully gripped his chair. "Hang on... You want me to convince Mycroft that you don't need watching over, when I do it all the bloody time? You can't even remember to eat regularly!"

Sherlock looked John in the eye, sensing the conversation was not going according to plan. "Now, John, I can take care of myself," he sniffed.

"Oh, yeah, sure. You've been doing a bang-up job so far," he rolled his eyes sarcastically. "I really appreciate that our kitchen is so _well_ stocked with food and the fact that we're behind on this month's rent because you won't take any bloody cases."

"Honestly, John, are you going to insult me or listen? He's actually sending men to guard our flat! I'm not even allowed to leave without 'permission' all because of that stupid pool incident. How the hell am I going to concentrate on my work with these insipid watchdogs mucking up my bloody privacy?"

John cocked his head and scanned the room. "There doesn't seem to be anyone here but us, Sherlock."

"Well they're not in the flat, obviously," he gestured, "They're outside!" Sherlock seemed displeased with his roommate's deductions.

"For how long?" John asked. Sherlock looked away from John and answered in a quieter tone, "Until Mycroft can find more information on Moriarty."

John shrugged his shoulders. "Well, then I don't see what the problem is. Let Mycroft catch the bad guys for once."

Sherlock took a step, desperately trying to make him understand, "But John! You don't understand! It's me that Moriarty wants to play with and I don't see how my brother is going get him to cooperate."

John sighed angrily, "And that's Mycroft's problem! Can't you just relish the fact that you can finally sleep in peace?"

Sherlock drew back. Nothing he could say would convince John how ridiculous this imposition was and how taxing it was to his preferred lifestyle. "Well, if you're going to be unreasonable, then I don't want your opinion," Sherlock stuck his nose up and moved to sit on the couch, sulking.

"Right. Well, I'm going to take a nap while you sort out your brother issues." He waved his hands as to say 'You deal with it' and left the room, leaving behind a disgruntled Sherlock. Sherlock seemed to be in one of his moods and John had seen enough more than enough drama today from his patients to deal with this ridiculous petty drama. Besides, Sherlock needed to get his discrepancies straight with Mycroft anyway.

Sherlock was pacing. He'd become bored after exhausting all the possible ideas he could think of to supersede Mycroft's orders. Sherlock stopped and reflected on his memories once more. Sure, at first, his experiences at college had been exhilarating and educational. It didn't take Sherlock very long to realize that although he had access to the labs, his professors had insisted on limiting his efforts. Though he would occasionally find the doors to the lab unlocked, he soon became frustrated with the bureaucracy. He spent most of his time studying and conducting experiments outside of class.

He wasn't sure when the idea first came to him, it probably occurred when he was a boy, but he couldn't pinpoint the date if asked. Human experimentation had always fascinated him, especially in regards to how certain chemicals would react with the body. Boredom coursing through his mind, a simple proposition from a student in a dark jacket was how Sherlock Holmes, inadvertently, became an addict.

Edit: Fanfiction thinks punctuation is actually Chinese! :3 So cute.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Insert apology for not updating and reading fanfiction instead. = w =

Chapter 4:

"That's it, I've had enough!" Sherlock stood up from his place on the couch. There was no one in the room to hear, but he had been mumbling to himself for the past hour, boredom seeping out of his ears. He strode to the coat hanger and grabbed his scarf in a huff of energy. He swung it around his neck and pulled his coat on, flipping up the collar. He absolutely refused to be ruled by Mycroft and he would be damned if he couldn't venture off on his own.

Full of confidence, he trampled down the stairs and out the front door, locking it behind him. He sucked in a deep breath as the cool London air extracted the heat from his body. Turning left, he tried to look as inconspicuous as possible, using his collar as a face shield.

He had heard, not so much seen, the black nondescript car pull alongside him. Ignoring it, he pressed onwards toward a main street, looking for an unoccupied taxi.

"Excuse me, Mr. Holmes, but I must insist you get in this car." Sherlock had noticed the distinct sound as the window had rolled down, but now he was staring at the man sitting in the driver's seat. 'Smith' his brother had called him. The man in the black suit had tan skin with dark brown eyes and neatly trimmed hair. Sherlock noted the circles under his eyes and the stains on his fingers from a spilled cup of coffee. The man was clearly exhausted, even John, with his minimal deduction skills, would be able to detect that.

"Smith, wasn't it? I have no intention of getting into that car with you. I don't care what your orders are. Now if you'll excuse me," he said as he hurried his pace, taking off towards the busier end of the street.

The car pulled forward and an exasperated voice said, "Mr. Holmes, if you don't get in this car, I'll need to use force. I don't want to have to do that because you seem like a reasonable fellow, but I will, if I have to."

Nearly to the end of the street, Sherlock broke into a short run. This was not happening. He hadn't been on this close of a watch for several years. He made it to the corner and scanned the street for a taxi when something slammed into him.

A man in a suit he had not seen before was attempting to gain control of him. He gave an uppercut to the man's face and whirled from his hulking body. He glanced about, noticing that getting out of this area was going to be much more of a hassle than he had intended. Leave it to his brother to mention two bodyguards but secretly have twelve more stalking the streets of the area surrounding his flat.

"Bollocks," he mumbled. Sherlock began to run out into a break in traffic toward an alleyway that wasn't swarming with men in ear pieces and street clothes. He reached the end and discovered why there hadn't been anyone blocking it, a fence stood 5 feet in length and was curiously, obstructing a wall. Unwilling to accept that this was a dead end, Sherlock began to climb the fence, looking for a ledge or brick that would help him move to the roof and hopefully, escape.

There was, indeed, a brick within his reach and pulling himself up proved easier than he had expected. He managed to reach for the short building's ledge and scrambled to the roof. Not out of danger quite yet, Sherlock's confidence returned as he scaled the rooftops of nearby buildings.

He eventually found a quiet street and clambered down to the ground. Breathing heavy from the excitement finally wearing off, Sherlock laughed at outsmarting his brother, "What I wouldn't give for a cigarette."

He casually strolled down the street, taking in the sounds and sights of London. He was not so unaware of his surroundings that he didn't notice the black car behind him that was driving suspiciously slow. He did, however, fail to notice that the car driving from the opposite end of the street was attempting the same maneuver. It wasn't so much that he was unobservant, just distracted. And that distraction was the crucial moment in his short-lived freedom.

Both cars swerved around Sherlock, creating a block in the road. Sherlock's adrenaline kicked in as he raced to avoid the obstacle. He would have made it to the sidewalk and maybe to another alley if not for the men that came from the cars, blocking his path.

Two grabbed him roughly by his arms and turned him around to face none other than 'Smith' himself.

"I told you to get in the car, Mr. Holmes. And now I've had to use force. Don't think that your brother will not find out about this."

"Why bother threatening me when you've already told him?" Sherlock grumbled, obviously upset with the fact that he had lost his freedom once more.

"Just get in the car, Mr. Holmes." Smith opened the door and offered Sherlock a seat in the back of the car.

"Don't mind if I do," said Sherlock sarcastically as he slid into the leather seat.

He tucked his coat in so that it wouldn't get caught in the door and faced the opposite direction as the door was slammed next to him. He closed his eyes. He had been close, so close!

An irritated grin graced Sherlock's face, "Well, at the very least, can we stop by Bart's momentarily before we arrive at my flat?"

Smith, who had gotten into the driver's seat with another man sitting passenger, smiled into the rear view mirror. "Mr. Holmes, you're not going home."

The smile dropped from Sherlock's face. He had not anticipated that he would not be immediately returning to the flat. The possibilities of his new destination weren't hard to figure out, but there was no point in trying to get out of meeting with Mycroft now.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Sorry about short chapters :c I'm new to writing and trying to improve, easily distracted, blah, blah, etc. Honestly, I've never forced myself to write anything, ever. I'm going to attempt biweekly updates at the very least, but bare with me and send some love/critique :3

Chapter 5:

Sherlock was silent on the drive, letting Smith direct the car to wherever his dear brother desired. He felt no remorse, but he was not keen on what his brother's reaction would be. Obviously Mycroft's demands were beyond ridiculous. Not allowed to leave his own flat? It was childish, low even for his dear brother.

Sherlock didn't recognize the building when Smith finally pulled the car to a stop. He had been expecting perhaps Mycroft's office or one of those clubs he so enjoyed to socialize at, not a shabby looking dump on the outskirts of London. Curious, he could feel his heart rate escalate slightly. His brother had always had a certain flair for the dramatic but, this was too much. Sherlock suspected Mycroft was going to attempt to scare him, which wouldn't work. He suppressed an uncharacteristic giggle at the thought. He had already been within inches Moriarty, himself, and there wasn't anything much scarier than being face to face with that psychopath. Not that Sherlock had been scared of the man, he felt more of an obligation to rescue his comrade.

Smith parked the car and exited his seat, coming round to the right side of the car. He opened the door casually, but had an air about him that said, 'Try anything and you will instantly regret it.' The other man stood nearby, ready to pounce should the need arise. Sherlock got out of the car with as much grace as he could muster before being grabbed roughly by the arm and directed into the most likely insect-infested building.

Surprisingly, the inside did not look nearly so run-down as the outside did. Perhaps, he thought, Mycroft used this as some sort of secret base where he dragged petty criminals who committed minor crimes against the government. Sure enough, Smith led him down a flight of stairs to a door that looked to be made of iron. Smith pulled a badge from his pocket and slid it into the reader on the right of the ominous door. The light blinked green and Sherlock was pushed inside what was clearly a holding cell. Two chairs and a table sat in the middle of the room along with a two-way mirror on the wall and a medium sized television attached to the corner of the room.

"Wait here," said Smith, as if Sherlock could have done something else, as he closed the door. Sherlock stood perplexed, this was his favorite part in his brother's dramatic delusions. Was the holding cell meant to intimidate him? He could have laughed. Surely his brother knew better. He took the nearest chair facing the two-way mirror and leaned forward on his elbows, fingers steepled in a contemplative manner.

It didn't take long for Mycroft to slide into the room. He wore an expensive-looking, neat, grey suit and a worried expression on his face. He walked, cautiously, up to the table. "I suppose you thought I would make it easy for you, hmm?" He glanced down at Sherlock with disdain. "This man, Moriarty, I'm having a hard enough time trying to locate him, let alone deal with your arrogant pride. Why couldn't you have just listened and did as you were told for once in your life?" Mycroft placed both hands on the table as if to intimidate his younger brother.

Sherlock didn't answer, waiting for his brother to explain why he dragged him here if he was so busy. At Sherlock's silence, Mycroft withdrew a hand and ran his fingers through his hair. He sighed dramatically.

"Desperate measures are called for, I suppose..." Mycroft stared at his remaining hand and watched his fingers tap against the table.

"What are you getting at, Mycroft?" Sherlock gave his best apathetic look.

Mycroft looked up with a sneer. "I was hoping you would ask."

From his suit pocket, Mycroft pulled out a remote control and pointed it -without removing his gaze off of his brother- at the television, turning it on. It seemed to be surveillance footage of some sort, outside of a building. Sherlock watched, unable to look away, as a younger, more scraggly version of himself pulled a bat out of his shabby coat and smashed the window of the store. He came out moments later with a nervous air. He looked both ways before running off into the night.

Sherlock's face had a pale look of horror, as if he had seen a ghost. Keeping his voice steady, "What does that-" he gestured with disdain, "-have to do with anything?"

Mycroft smiled "Ah, I remember those good old days when you were as high as a kite as well. Thieving so you could fulfill your needs." He looked up thoughtfully, "I do sometimes wonder what would have happened if I hadn't found you, suffering from hypothermia and dying from an overdose. Your incessant drama was enough for a lifetime." He looked coolly back at Sherlock.

"Do you mean to bribe me with these? It won't work, Mycroft. I refuse to be bossed around by a self-righteous prick." He hardened his own gaze, challenging Mycroft.

"I was hoping you didn't mind if I showed these to your... roommate. I'm sure he'd appreciate knowing he lives with a former criminal."

"It was petty crime and it was years ago! It's irrelevant." Though there was protest in Sherlock's voice, the realization he was beat was beginning to creepy into his facial expression. He couldn't let John know. What if his one and only friend moved out because of his stupid brother blabbing about his past?

"I'm sure the straight-laced military man that John is, could easily forgive your track record." Mycroft donned a fake grimace and shook his head. "Surely this wouldn't make him want to turn tail and find another, more clean, flatmate..."

"Okay, fine!" he snapped, "Just don't show John." Sherlock's face was stern, but his eyes flashed a pathetic pleading to Mycroft before returning to a fiery hatred. "And try not to keep to that snail's pace of investigating that you're used to. Don't think you can keep me held up with blackmail forever."

"Oh I don't intend to, but everything would be so much easier if you were to stay in one place." Mycroft gestured to the door. "You're free to go now."

Eager to get out of this oppressive atmosphere, Sherlock stood and edged toward the door. Before Sherlock could turn the handle, Mycroft added one last jibe, "I find it rather humorous that you'll behave for your flatmate, but not your own mother."

Sherlock turned and stared at his brother. "She never put up with my experiments." In a blur of rage, Sherlock exited the room.

_End! Also I realize that Mycroft would be too busy to deal with petty criminals, but think of it more as him dealing with internal affairs that the outside world doesn't need to know about._

_AAANNNNDDD I realize I suck_ xD


End file.
